Don’t understand deliberate hurt.
Just don’t.
Never did.
Can’t conceive of the calculation:
The clinical cut to dead centre;
The surgeon’s pinpoint precision;
The coup-de-grâce, graciously granted,
With all the blunt, high-impact benevolence
Of a snub-nosed shell,
Shot, point-blank,
From the barrel of a smoking phone-gun
At precisely 00.04 on 25.12.04.
Tomorrow’s fish ‘n’ chip wrappers will read:
“Just another Saturday night drive-by texting”.
But I won’t be around to read it.
Don’t understand.
Never did.
Don’t want to.
